Sol Searching |
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Sol Searching
A Fun-Filled Tale of a Modern Girl's Move to the Costa del Sol
Keidi Keating describes her life moving to the Costa del Sol and starting a magazine
Author: Keidi Keating
ISBN: 978-1-905430-68-0
Publisher: Native Spain
Date First Published: 15/12/2009
Taken from the chapter 'Moving Forward'
My stomach wouldn't stop dancing, as I was meeting Mr Money about the world's longest job vacancy, at last! I was exuding excitement at the thought that my unemployment agony might be over by lunch time, but I desperately tried to retain a cool exterior.
I pictured myself as a high profile magazine editor flitting between celebrity interviews, free lunches and designer shops. A chic Londoner living it up in the rich area of the Costa del Sol, with a job others would envy. Wealthy men. Yachts. Ferraris. Wealthy men. Yachts. Ferraris. Wealthy men. Yachts. Ferraris. The three words bounced around my head, luring me to a new and pretentious life, like a conveyor belt on a game show, showing what I could win, if my luck was ripe.
I wondered what it would be like to have cash to splash; enough money to buy what I wanted, when I wanted, without having to worry about covering the rent each month. Mr Money told me I had the job in February and I assumed he had asked me to journey all the way to Marbella, to reveal a starting date. Why else?
My Dad drove the hour and a half slog. My head was like a washing machine, churning around at speed, while pondering over all the possibilities of the forthcoming meeting. We had agreed to meet outside a café, beneath his office. He emerged out of a random door with a folder under his arm. He looked ‘wrong'. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy, his skin was dull and grey. If he was a piece of fruit one would have speculated that he was going off.
"Follow me" he said, leading me up some steps to his office.
There were two rooms overlooking a busy main road. I immediately observed that there was no furniture, no computer desks and no phones. No photocopier, no paper clip chains, no naked women calendars, nor any other tell tale ‘we work from here' signs. Just one empty office, which clearly needed fitting.
sol searching
"Right" I said. "So when are you proposing to use this office as an, errm, office?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," said Mr Money with a guilty glint in his flagging eye. "You see, we aren't quite ready to roll yet. Things are taking longer than we imagined, you know, red tape and all that." He laughed nervously and unduly.
I must have guessed what was coming next and he must have seen the disappointment flood my face.
"Look, Keidi, I'm sorry. I really want you to work on the magazine. I think you're perfect for the position, but not quite yet. Can you hang in there for another couple of months? I'll call you as soon as the circumstances change. Mark my words."
I pictured myself as a puppet on strings, with Mr Money towering over me, moving me how he wanted, when he wanted and I didn't like it. The idea of ‘hanging on' for something, which would probably never happen, didn't appeal. This game had been played for far too long and I was losing. I had just slid down the longest snake on the board, back to square one. My life would now entail seeking the ladder so I could climb back up to the top. I was sick to death of all the false promises of calls and starting dates, physically exhausted. I shook my head in disbelief.
"You mean I've come here today, all this way, just so you can tell me that you're not quite ready to take me on?" I stammered. His guilty glint turned guiltier.
"Yeah," he said. "I thought it'd be better to tell you to your face, rather than on the phone."
His logic seemed about as sane as some of George Bush's policies. I wanted to grab him round the neck and squeeze hard. I wanted to pull his hair out, hit him and scream obscenities, but without wanting to cause a scene, I said an abrupt "Goodbye" slammed the door deliberately hard and left the office to seek my parents, who were sitting in the café below.
"So how did it go? They asked in unison.
I ended the day feeling so depressed that if I were Sleeping Beauty I would have made sure there was a prince-trap outside my door before bedtime. The light, to which I had been attracted, like a moth to a bulb, had suddenly gone out.
This was the day I realised I may have no other option than to return to the country I so desperately yearned to escape from. Reality had hit home and the thought of returning there was about as treacherous as having a travelling companion with a serious case of BO.
About the Author
Keidi, now twenty-nine began writing at the age of seven when she penned a series of children's tales. She has lived in Spain since 2004 and is Editor of The Sentinella magazine, a popular A5 sized publication distributed in the Axarquia area of Spain.